Retribution

[Praetor 1550]

 

 

 

Retribution

 

 

The last three dozen feet were the hardest. Shields could block arrows, but javelins tore them apart like paper kites. Something solid slammed into his shield and Razani stumbled, nearly tripping and falling to the ground.

 

A lance skewered a nearby man and he crumpled, screaming in pain as he clutched his gut with blood covered hands. The mans features screwed up in agony as he fruitelessly tried to pry the terrible weapon from his body.

 

Horns blew and the yells of man, orc and elf clamored for dominance above the field of battle, clashing with the sound of steel upon steel and bones shattering beneath the titanic might of orcish battlemaces.

 

“Move, dogs!” screamed a man with a large beard as he swung his saber in circles, charging in front of them all. His shield lay long forgotten behind him, covered with dozens of dents and cracks. 

 

 

The thunder of a hundred feet pounding along with a hundred hearts. The storm of a hundred voices as they ullulated their barbaric war cries. Only a few stayed silent, those that came from another world all together, a military world. Razani did not shout, he kept his breath for the fight. He would need it when crossing blades with men half his age.

 

Finally, an enemy stood before him and he could see the whites of the young mans eyes. Then they clashed and shield slammed against shield, pike pushed through flesh and Razani leapt off the ground, putting all his weight behind his one meager slice of armor. The enemy cried out in shock, his voice melding with the increasing cries of agony as they danced to the tune of battlecries. 

 

He fell back and Razani landed on top of him. He let go of his shield and drew his short dagger, slamming his forearm against the kids throat and stabbing his dagger into his eyeslot. A spurt of blood followed by a spasmodic jerk. Dead.

 

A river of red splattered across Razani’s face as an orc burst through the enemy ranks and smashed his mace into a foe’s head, pulping it and sending gore flying everywhere. He looked down at Razani and grinned widely, his tusks stained with blood and flesh. “Krug!” he roared, and disappeared back into the crowd.

 

With his gladius drawn, Razani leapt after him. Finally, his battle cry escaped his lips and joined so many others. “Exercitus!” he screamed. A nearby raider fell to a defenders kick and rose a hand in a pathetic attempt to save himself.

 

 

Razani jumped forward and grabbed the killer moments before he could skewer the raider with his pike. His arm slid around his neck while his gladius found a weak spot elf’s armor. It slipped between steel and ribs, piercing his heart and stealing his life. He ripped out the sword, leaving a trail of blood behind him and speckling his heavy cloak with it.

 

They were winning, they always won. He had not lost a fight since he had joined the Crows. Not since his days in the Exercitus had he known such success or felt so accomplished. He was back were he belonged, returned to his roots. He paried a blade almost casually and let a nearby dwarf fell the foe. 

 

No, these militia’s were nothing to the raiding party from the sea. Faster than most in their low skiffs they rolled in with the morning mist and retreated with the rising sun, gone before the army could even try to intervene, leaving nothing but orphans and burning homes. Slaves were a profitable venture in some places.

 

 

“Into the town!” roared their leader, his eyes wild with bloodlust. Razani ran forward, his eyes fixed on the gap in the wooden pallisade. On either side stood sweat covered orcs with enourmous axes in hand, their armor stuck full of splinters and broken arrowshafts.

 

Like a stream, the Crows pushed the defenders into their town and spread like a vile plague between houses and into homes. Screams erupted as woman cried for their husbands, and finally, like they always did, the milita broke. Every man panicked as he ran home, praying to his deity that his family had been spared. 

 

Razani summoned a discreet ball of flame in his hand and tossed into the barracks. It flew almost lazily through the air, sailing through a window and hitting the aged, dry wood. It lit up like a torch and erupted into great gouts of flame. Only a few men ran out screaming in agony, their bodies wreathed in flames. Most had already fallen.

 

He turned around with a grin on his face, intent on joining the cluster of men assaulting the miniscule keep. Then something solid struck him in the back and he stumbled, his free hand flying to his cloak. A long piece of wood, a growing sense of numbness… An arrow?

 

He turned around on clumsy feet, his gladius slipping from nerveless hands. Only a few feet away stood a young woman with a bow, a terrified look on her face. He stretched out his hand, slowly curling it into a fist as all feeling leff his legs. Razani fell to his knees, the jagged cobblestones smashing into bone.

 

With a yelp, the girl jumped away and took cover behind an open door. The door from which she had crept up on him. Razani tried to speak but his tongue felt unbearably thick and his mind was fuzzy. A veil seemed to have slipped over his eyes, turning his one sharp vision into a pathetic parody filled with blurred images and sharp contrasts.

 

 

Finally, he fell facedown on the ground, his nose shattering against the stones and choking him with blood. Not the brave sword nor the willy magic, no brash axe or brutal mace had taken his life. He had not been claimed in the midst of fight, killed righteously. No, the cowardly arrow had taken him. 

 

 

 

He remembered the priests of Petrus with their lengthy speeches of repentance and retribution. Perhaps they were right after all, an awful death to repay his awful sins. With a final cough, he lay still and the pool of blood around him grew only ever larger. Game over.

 

 

((Got banned a long time ago and I finally felt like doing a death post for one of my characters.))

[Z3r05t4r 855]

((Excellent read!))

[ThumperJack 927]

((That was very nice!))

[Fireheart 2777]

((10/10 read))

[Lym 849]

((11/10 would read again))

[Tirenas 677]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.